


A family blessing

by UMsArchive



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ghostly appearance??, M/M, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13287507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMsArchive/pseuds/UMsArchive
Summary: The night before his wedding, the Regent haunts his dreams for a last time. Or so Auguste promises.





	A family blessing

 

Laurent rarely drinks. Even in these safer times, when no unwelcome hands could reach for him in the dark, when no cold knives are lining at his neck; when there are no shifty eyes lined up around the table, watching out for every drop dripped on his tongue, for every move he makes, every word he utters; when anything could be a risk.

 

But Akielos has a different etiquette. Different manners. And while he has considered them beneath his people's own for so long, their beliefs do account for not bringing disgrace on themselves by being disgraceful towards others.

 

“It's… a ceremonial drug,” Damen explains.

 

“Drug,” Laurent says. He is slightly tipsy. He's drunk enough to please the Akielon part of their court, but not as much as to lose control over either his mind or his body. But he did not count on a drug to imbalance his calculations.

 

“This is a ritual meant for those who no longer have… anyone alive to ask for their blessing upon their marriage. You’re supposed to have them visit you in your dream for that purpose.”

A drug that induces hallucinations then. “Ah, does anyone actually dream of anything?”

“Many don't talk about it. It's supposed to be their own business. But I've heard stories of people dreaming of their latest ancestors. Some said they just dreamt of themselves waiting on some bench for the whole of the night but no one came.”

 

Laurent doesn't like the idea of these hallucinations much, especially since thoughts of most of his family isn't something he’d like to trigger. Auguste, he’d be happy to see, even in his dreams, but certain guilty thoughts from years ago have had him repressing any thoughts of him for a while then, and now he couldn't accomplish it even if he tried.

 

They are observed drinking their portions just before retiring for bed. The drug itself also makes him sleepy to begin with and he can't help but momentarily think with a warning that it sounds like a very convenient drug to give your kings. But he's comfortable, and Damen’s big arms are tightly wrapped around him and any kind of thoughts are subduing.

 

He is soon aware he’s started dreaming, seeing himself sitting in an unknown dark space, alone, on a low bench. He's got himself reminded of what Damen had told him. Definitely, the drug they were given must have been supposed to fuse with the expectancy they had planted in their head, and that was why he is actually sitting on a bench just like Damen talked of, and sitting alone, just as he himself has presumed would happen to him, given the circumstance.

 

No ancestor of any kind would come to Laurent to give their blessing, given the case. He does not deserve it, honestly. And that is something he has to live with, although he’ll probably make up some lies for Damen tomorrow morning. But none of his ancestors would truly understand or appreciate his life choices, that is for sure.

 

“Laurent, alone upon such a significant moment of your life, I see. One may wonder why, but many would guess. _I_ would.”

Laurent freezes, his chest contracted, begging for the air he’s stopped giving it upon the first intonation of that voice. He blinks, not looking up. This is a dream. Nothing but a dream. He breathes in. Of course, upon trying to come up with latest ancestors to summon, his subconscious would think of _him_ still.

 

“Why so quiet, nephew? Aren't you going to beg for a blessing?” the voice goes on, making Laurent nauseous on its own.

 

He is dreaming. This is the effect of a drug. He had to accept it in order to not insult Akielon tradition. But all he has to do is wake up. And his uncle will be gone. This is not his first nightmare of him. But he is always gone when he wakes up.

 

“You are well aware I don't need your blessing,” he finally looks up, restraining himself from flinching upon seeing him. His uncle looks too real for his liking, too close.

 

“And yet, you’ve always needed validation. And who else will give it to you. Your brother, who your future husband killed? Your father, who despised them for killing his favourite son? Your mother, disgusted by their barbarity? Be serious, Laurent, only a tainted soul as mine could ever sympathize with one as tainted as yours. Let me sit on the bench with you and we can talk.”

 

Laurent meant to show himself unaffected, but his voice is coming out raw, “Don't compare me to you. I am not tainted. I am _not_. “

 

“Stop being so fastidious and in denial, nephew. Let us talk. Let me sit on the bench with you.”

 

Laurent tries to focus, tries to banish any thoughts of his uncle, since waking doesn’t seem to come any time soon. But as this always works, that only brings in more and more triggering memories. His vision tries to fixate on the empty space of the bench he sits on and it dawns on him, he isn't the only one with that fixation, “You aren't allowed to sit on the bench with me,” he says slowly. “I want you gone.”

 

“Now, now, Laurent-,” the voice drawls on.

_“Go_ ,” Laurent says sternly, looking up with ferocity, but all he sees now is smoke diffusing through the air.

The smoke goes away but he remains on his low bench, alone. Long minutes seem to pass, maybe ten, maybe twenty. And his uncle’s words start coming back to him, long after his very presence has went away. Who else would come for him, and with approving feelings, given the case?

 

But it doesn't matter. He’ll just have to make it through the night. He just has to wake up the next morning and find the will to smile. To enjoy his own wedding. To let himself believe it was the right choice. He knows it is.

“It is,” a voice echoes.

 

Laurent's breath freezes again. In anticipation. In … shyness. A few years ago he's started to realise he'd been forgetting his brother's voice. If he would've tried to remember it a day before, he would've frustratingly found it painfully impossible. But what he hears now, he could mistake for nothing else. It is a different kind of fear and anxiousness that makes it hard for him to raise his eyes this time.

 

He does it, though. He does it slowly, to find the figure before him standing closer than he’s expected, legs crossed right before Laurent's bench with a boyish relaxation. His face are soft and clear… and blurry, although that is perhaps Laurent's eyes fault. Laurent makes an effort to stand-

“ _No_ ,” Auguste's image warns sternly, stopping him in his track.

“Why?” Laurent sounds hurt even to his own ears as he gingerly sits back down, slowly, but he does not care. He can take it, dream Auguste’s rejection, too. This is also not a first time kind of nightmare.

“The moment you sit up, the dream ends,” Auguste explains, his expression turning soft again, as if explaining an unfair fact of existence itself to an innocent child - and maybe he is.

 

“I had forgotten your voice,” Laurent finds himself saying, in lack of anything else to say, “and I was slowly forgetting the details of your face. Portraits aren't quite enough.” His voice is raw again. He sounds much younger, but he doesn't mind if Auguste is the one seeing him like this. He didn't ever judge him for this. He won't judge him now.

 

“I am sorry, Laurent,” Auguste speaks again, and Laurent let's it soak in, commit it to his memory, every inflection, all before actually considering what he's said.

 

“Sorry for what?”

 

“I promised you I’d come back,” Auguste says.

 

“It was not your fault. You-,” but he stops there. Because he is afraid of opening that subject, given the purpose of this dream. “What does it mean if I let you sit beside me, on the bench?” he asks instead.

Auguste lets him, not commenting on the sudden change of subject. “It means you’d be offering one ancestor all of your remaining time, leaving no room for any-”

 

“Sit on the bench.” It does make sense, what his uncle tried to do, taking advantage and robbing him of his chance to hear and see his brother even in his dream.

 

“Laurent, this would be your chance to see mother, father too, and-”

 

“Please,” Laurent insists. He sounds almost pleading, he knows. But this is not the time and situation to hide his vulnerability. He might have no time at all.

Auguste doesn't argue further, though. He sits up effortlessly and takes a seat next to him.

“You’ve grown a lot. When the dream ends and we both have to sit up, let's measure our heights for reference.”

“We should,” Laurent nods almost shyly. It is very apparent Auguste is still somewhat taller and he is definitely broader, and while he is not a child anymore, it still feels like Auguste's aura of strength and protection encompasses him. Laurent feels an almost giddy comfort at the familiar proximity. It is the kind of transparent unique loving presence that could never be replaced in his life in its own kind. It feels ridiculous just now, that he’s once let his uncle make him believe there had ever been anything short of pure and unashamed about this.

“And how much does the dream last?” he asks, smiling bashfully.

 

“Either it ends by dawn - and I don't know how much that means, since dream time works differently, but I think we'll know when it happens - or if I give you my blessing before that,” Auguste explains, all in transparent good humour, but Laurent is not so unaffected.

The blessing. So there it is now, Laurent realises. It is unavoidable. Sure, he could go like this until dawn, avoiding the topic. Auguste seems ready to oblige him. But he doesn’t want to pretend. Not with him.

He means to ask Auguste, ‘could you forgive me?’ but what he hears himself saying instead is, “Can you forgive _him_?” It sounds of much greater importance to him right then. It also sounds uncharacteristically pleading - again - as if he asks his brother to go for a ride later, and not to forgive his killer.

 

“Oh,” Auguste blinks, as if this is truly unexpected.

Laurent feels suddenly uneasy.

 

“Laurent, I never believed this was his fault.”

Laurent looks back at him quizzically, blurting out, “He… killed you,” then flushes.

 

“Yes,” Auguste says simply, “he had to,” with which Laurent's mind empties with perplexity and the single thought that stays is 'They really are so dumb and honourable alike’.

Auguste laughs at his expression. _Laughs_. “Ah, I see how ridiculous that sounds to someone with your judgement. Of course, it is not that simple. Yes, he put that sword through me. And, before that, I put my own sword through him. And, given the chance I would have dealt him a killing blow myself. And I would generously despise him for it, were he generally despicable. As it is, I had my thoughts and worries elsewhere when I died and after. And he didn't become relevant again until recently, when he didn't quite come to my attention in a negative light.”

 

Laurent thinks of his own obsession with ‘Damianos’ after Marlas in contrast to Auguste's 'other worries'. His loss in contrast to Auguste's loss. “You did have a chance to kill him - when you disarmed him - and you didn't.”

 

“Ah, so that did mean that much to him, then. He mentioned it to me, too.”

 

Laurent narrows his eyes. “He-?”

 

“I saw Damianos, too, tonight. Not sure how that works. I suppose he’s basically family now so...” He's looking somewhere in front of him, towards the space where their uncle disappeared in smoke, as if he knows. “Ah, I was a bit late because of that visit, I see. But _he's_ not coming back,” he says confidently, looking at Laurent with a serious expression.

“Right. You sat down, so none can come any longer,” Laurent recalls.

“No. He’ll never come back,” Auguste adds with conviction, and nothing else. Then, changing his disposition to a lighter one. “Laurent, do you remember when your pony died?”

 

Laurent smiles thinly. “I said I’ll never care for any pony or horse again.”

 

“And what did I say?”

 

Laurent gulps, every significant thing Auguste has ever told him engraved deeply in the back of his mind. “You said I have a big heart for such a skinny boy, which will only grow bigger in time, and there will be plenty of space for me to keep my pony there, and many other horses to come.”

 

“ And remember when you were five and you somehow managed to sneak in and steal our father’s crown?”

 

“His Guard men were useless,” Laurent puffs  with feigned innocence and shrugs.

 

“Or maybe you were too sneaky,” Auguste grins. “You tried to wear it, but your head was so small, it fell through and rested on your shoulders,” Auguste goes on as Laurent's cheeks turn increasingly redder at the vivid details, “When you were ten, you tried it again, and it fell forward and covered your eyes. You were caught and grounded every time. And you said you’ll definitely still try it again, but only by the time your head got big enough and you will be able to take it from me because I wouldn't mind it so much.”

Auguste takes a look around, and Laurent follows his eyes, seeing the light spreading around them, slowly encompassing the whole space, travelling to where they are sitting. A clasp on his shoulder turns his attention back to Auguste, to whom he looks at helplessly, catching onto the meaning of that.

 

“So you go do that now,” Auguste says, smiling serenely. “You have my blessing. Continue to be great. I’m proud of you. I've always been.” And he sits up, extending his hand down for Laurent.

 

Laurent takes it reluctantly, knowing this is the end. Sitting up, he finds himself a few inches short of being eye to eye with his brother. He raises his to look up at him, and blue eyes identical to his are the last image he sees before opening his own for real.

“You’re crying,” Damen is saying, gently wiping under his eyes.

 

“It was,” Laurent sniffs, his voice raw, raising himself on the bed, “intense. Did you dream of anything?” he shifts the topic to Damen for now.

“I have had quite a confrontational dream thing going on with my father. I forgot how short-tempered he could be. And I didn't see Kastor. But I… dreamed of my mother. I think. Isn't that weird? I didn't even know exactly what she looked like.”

 

“I suppose _she_ did give you your blessing, at least.”

 

“She did. She called you, um,” he messes up his face, trying to remember, “-'strangely _endearing for such a little devil_ ’ in doing so.”

 

“You know, I do hope this is a real thing. In fact, I would call off the wedding if your actual subconsciousness produced that. Other unusual drug induced hallucinations that might betray you and your chances of marital bliss?”

 

“Actually, I can't so much vouch for the accuracy of the process since I did also dream of... Auguste,” Damen speaks it carefully,  like the name is not something he's yet sure he should utter. “Which is weird. I barely remember his face. I never even heard his voice before. He's not even _my_ family.”

“Well, he kind of is _now_.”

 

“That's what dream-Auguste said,” Damen says.

 

“He did. And he told me he visited you.”

They exchange looks.

“You know, unless we are one of those couples with very strong telepathy, there might be something to all this,” Damen adds after a while.

 

A pause. Laurent smiles. “I hope he gave you the talk.”

 

“He did. I think. He was smiling and was very casual about it but somehow threatening at the same time. You two might share that.”

 

Laurent smiles, getting up. Damen lets him. He knows him, when something’s on his mind. That he needs space and tranquility. It is a nice thought, to think any of the things Auguste told him are not just his wishful thinking.

 

But, starting that day, even on his worst nights, Laurent no longer dreams of his uncle.


End file.
